by Tia Fanning
The prisoner's injuries flashed in my mind.
I inhaled a shaky breath. “Maybe some one needs to protect him,” I whispered, looking away.
He let out a contemptible snort. “So you're siding with insurgents now?"
Fury clouded my good sense. For a fleeting moment, I heard Sergeant Jackson lecturing me about being careless.
I ignored the warning.
"What are you? Special ops? CIA? NCS?” I sneered. “Is this why you brought me here? To treat the prisoners you fuck up during interrogation? Did you forget that fucking torture is against the fucking law in our country?"
"Is that what he told you? That we tortured him?"
"Did you?” I countered.
"I could give a crap less whether you think we did or not. I don't answer to you. You answer to me. Tell me, word for word, what he said to you. Now."
Give a crap less, answer to me ... his statements, like sharp daggers, stabbed at my chest. And it hurt.
A thousand smart ass retorts teased my tongue, and I opened my mouth with the intent to lash out at the son of a bitch, but a subtle voice in my head, another whisper demanding that I pay heed, reminded me of the audience present. Though the others in the room pretended not be listening, too absorbed in whatever busy work they were doing, I knew they were.
Shame flooded me, cooling my lava hot temper and allowing reason to take hold.
This argument was getting out of hand. The problem here was not the transfer of information, or lack thereof. The problem was that my captor and I were too close to each other, cared too much, our emotions running too high, and we were now trying to wound each other with hurtful words...
God, it was like we were having a lovers spat over which button too push in the time of war. Red or green. The wrong choice would blow us all to kingdom come.
I told myself to calm down, to be a mature adult. I'd give him what he wanted for the sake of peace and for the safety of the people around me.
"I'm not sure if I heard him—"
"We're not doing this again, Brenna,” he spat. “If you can't do it on your own..."
AHHH!
"Stop, damn it, just stop! Stop interrupting me and let me finish my damn sentence.” My eyes watered in frustration. “Please."
I would not cry, I would not cry...
He snapped his mouth shut, then offered an abrupt nod.
"I don't know if I heard him correctly,” I voiced slowly, emphasizing each word in a vain attempt to steady my quivering voice. I paused, expecting a fifth interruption. When it didn't come, I continued. “I think he said, ‘We know who they are and we are coming for them'."
"Anything else?"
"Um ... inshallah, soon."
He looked up and behind me. “Take her back to her quarters,” he said quietly.
And that was it.
My escort dragged me away again, albeit a little gentler than when he'd brought me out of the makeshift holding cell, but dragging all the same.
On the bright side, at least they didn't blindfold me this time.
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Chapter Fifteen
It was afternoon and I was still in bed, staring at the ceiling. I had spent the last two days doing a lot of thinking. I had plenty of time to do so. Two days and I hadn't seen or heard from my captor.
Which was fine by me.
Okay, it bothered me a little, but I wasn't going to go search for him—not that I could, being locked in the apartment and all. I didn't even bother with the walks in the courtyard. I wasn't going to lower myself to request anything from them. Not even my escort. Fuck him, too.
The only messages I left in the last forty-eight hours were the prescription instructions for their other prisoner.
Fuck them all.
I took an occasional break here and there from my soul-searching to watch the news, but of course, no mention of me being MIA.
Given all the information I had gathered during my stay, starting with my captor's ‘consider this a temporary reassignment', and ending with the injured insurgents ‘American pigs’ comment, I guessed that my captor and his friends really were some super classified US government agency. I probably was not missing due to them fudging paperwork, and their newly discovered identity explained how they were able to get on a US post—and take me off it—so easily. It also explained how they'd managed to retrieve my belongings.
So that led to my next conclusion, or maybe assumption: They weren't my enemy.
Gee, my captor had been telling the truth. Go fucking figure.
However, just because he wasn't my enemy didn't make things any better between us. He was still my captor. For one, he'd kidnapped me. For two, I was being held there against my will, secreted away behind white steel bars and padlocked doors. And three, most importantly, he was my captor because I didn't know what else to call the fucking jerk.
I should refer to him as asshole, but it just didn't have the same flow.
What it came down to was this: If they needed my help, they should have asked me, not abducted me. It would have made everything so much easier. Or even if they just ‘had’ to kidnap me, they could have at least told me we were on the ‘same side’ instead of leaving me to wonder if I was cavorting with insurgents.
I mean, maybe my captor did kind of tell me. But then he should have showed me, did something more than just hint at it. “Consider this a temporary reassignment, Brenna. I'm not your enemy, Brenna. If I was an insurgent, you'd already be dead, Brenna."
Whatever.
Fucker.
Okay, not my enemy. But I still didn't know who they were, personally or professionally. I had no names and I had no idea what US government agency they worked for.
Shit, for all I knew, the whole wounded prisoner thing could have been a set up, an enemy mind game to earn my trust and...
Stop.
I was allowing myself to be drawn back to the conspiracy theories. The more time I spent in my secured and secret location, and the more information I found out, the more confused I became.
This was just the half way point of the thinking process I had been enduring for the last two days. It was a vicious circle, never ending.
I blew out a frustrated breath. God, they pissed me off so much. No, actually he pissed me off so much. The other guys didn't talk to me. He was the one who preached about trust and openness and how much he cared.
And I, sadly, fell for the bullshit and was now very much in love with him.
Yes, I could finally be honest with myself about it.
But you know what? That love didn't mean shit without honor, integrity, and respect. What good was love without those things?
Many of the wives at the battered woman's shelter used to tell me they still loved their abusive husbands even after all the pain and horror, but they couldn't let that stop them from leaving. Wrong is wrong and right is right.
And it wouldn't stop me from leaving either.
I could forgive him for the secrets, the hidden agendas, the manipulations, the fights—hell, even the kidnapping. But what bothered me most was the way he refused to answer the torture question.
I had made it my life's work to help people, not hurt them. And I hated the possibility that I was making people better just so they could endure more pain.
I didn't think my captor was capable of such cruelty, or at least I didn't want to believe it, but...
Why didn't he deny it?
How did the prisoner end up hurt?
Ah, and here I was, back to dwelling on the injured prisoner.
I found it strange that my enemy acted more like an ally than my supposed allies, who seemed to insist on acting like my enemies.
Find a way to leave, my friend ... we know who they are ... we are coming for them...
Nice.
My prison was now a terrorist target.
I should be scared, but I wasn't. Perhaps it was because my captor's cocky reassurances ... safer here with us t
han you were before.
I believed him, even if it appeared that somehow he and his team's mission, identity, and location had been compromised. It went to show that not everyone could keep secrets; maybe that was why they guarded them so closely.
God willing, I would be able to take the prisoner's advice and find a way out of here. Soon. It wasn't because of the warning he gave me that I felt the need to leave.
Actually, not need.
Want.
I wanted to leave.
I wanted to put some distance between me and my captor. I wanted to forget about him. Wanted to go on with my boring lonely life as if we had never met.
"Stop lying to yourself, Brenna."
Okay. I didn't want a lonely life, but things would never work between us.
Memories from our passionate interactions filled my mind.
Those were just dreams.
My mind replaced the dream images with those of the very real kiss he gave me.
The room suddenly felt stifling, making breathing difficult.
I needed to get out and get some fresh air, but thanks to my boycotting of two certain individuals, the only two I knew in this god-forsaken place, I was out of luck on the ‘getting out’ part.
Rolling off the bed, I went to the window and drew back the curtains as far as I could. “Who puts the bars on the inside?” I muttered, reaching between the steel tubes. I unlocked the window and slid it all the way up.
I pressed my head against the cold metal rods and closed my eyes, enjoying the contrast between the cool escaping air as it met the hot desert breeze rushing in.
My captor had said we were drawn together, and he couldn't ignore that. And as long as I was trapped here with him, I wouldn't be able to either.
"Please God, help me find a way to escape."
Hopeless, I grasped the bars, squeezed them tight, and tilted my head.
I blinked a couple of times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.
Hinges?
Shit!
It couldn't be that easy, could it? God didn't answer prayers and produce miracles like this simply because one asks...
When I swung my head and investigated the other side of the window, I found that I was right. The quick release latch had a padlock securing it shut.
I shook the bars hard, testing them.
Solid.
"Okay, God. That was so not cool,” I grumbled as I went back to the bed and collapsed on it in utter dejection. “You shouldn't raise a person's hopes up like that."
They security bars obviously swung open in case of emergencies, but sadly my keepers, or whatever the hell they were, had the option to lock the latch. Just like owners of an inner city home did so small children couldn't get out and intruders couldn't get in.
"I just hope the place doesn't catch on fire while I'm here.” I'd be shit out of luck.
My captor's sincere smile and words came into my mind ... you're not a prisoner here, you're safe here...
Whatever.
Wait. Unless...
I started laughing out loud. No, they took great care to ensure my safety. Assuming that I wasn't overestimating the kindness of my keepers, they wouldn't just leave me trapped in this apartment without a way out. I mean, what if there was an emergency?
Maybe a key lying around?
No. It would have to be easier. If there was an emergency, I wouldn't have time to look for a key.
One of the other windows.
Yes, that was possible. Like leaving the door unlocked the night of the chicken soup incident, it would be guarded by a camera, so if I so much as approached, they'd know. Even if I had stumbled upon it by accident, by the time I was ready to escape, they'd already know my intentions and be in place to stop me.
Okay, which window would it be? The kitchen window was too small and set too high, used more for ventilation.
I jumped to my feet. “Living room."
There were two windows in there, heavy drapes covering the sides, so I wouldn't have noticed the latches.
I was giddy with excitement, but I had to play this cool. I couldn't go and check, if I did, then they'd expect the escape attempt.
I had to plan and then prepare. I debated on when to leave. Night would provide the most cover, but I wouldn't be able to see where I was going or which direction I should travel. But it would be too hot to go during the day and I couldn't carry gallons of water over hundreds of desert miles. The grueling sun, a sandstorm, a group of insurgents, all deterred my attempt on a daytime escape.
Around sunset. Yes, at least some of the threats would be lower. That would work. Enough light to get me started, get me into the desert, but darkness would fall quick enough, cooling the air as well as providing cover. It got cold at night; I'd pack extra clothes and keep moving to stay warm. Then as the sun came out, I'd find shelter and rest. Water? I'd figure it out as the time came.
I went to my wardrobe, opening the door that contained all my gear. I just hoped my captor was telling the truth when he said there were no cameras in my room. Searching through my field bag, I took out my small flashlight, my compass...
Awesome! They'd left me my field knife.
Why not? There are knives in the kitchen, too. Duh...
I skipped over my waterproof sleeping bag, deciding instead on the small, tightly rolled wool blanket by itself. It was light and compact. I zipped up the bag and closed the doors. As much as I wanted to take other field supplies, I had to be realistic. Even if I did escape from here, there was always the possibility that I'd be captured by someone else before I reached safety. I didn't want to have too many obvious military items on me—just in case. I needed to as look normal as possible.
Did they retrieve all my stuff?
On the flight over to Iraq, I had a carry-on, a small black backpack that I'd brought on the plane.
Finding it where all my civilian stuff was, I dropped to my knees and dumped the contents on the bottom of the wardrobe—CD player, three CDs, three magazines, two books, the folder containing copies of my orders, ticket stubs, and other various things. Placing the blanket at the bottom of my pack's larger compartment, I stashed the three remaining survival items into the front pocket.
Next, I pulled down an abaya and a head scarf. I wasn't going to try to escape wearing the long, flowing caftan again, considering I had almost killed myself last time, but I'd probably need it later in the event I came across a village or town. I stuck the hijab with the blanket. Anyway, it might come in handy before then. Who knew how long I'd be in the desert. The scarf would protect my head from the sun and the abaya could serve as a pillow.
No more, keep it light.
I hated leaving all my stuff behind, but such was life. I still needed to pack sustenance.
But how would I explain bringing food back to my room?
I grabbed a book and, willing myself to be calm and casual, walked out of my bedroom, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the story as I made my way to the kitchen.
Would they be able to tell something was up?
I gathered two bottles of water, a bag of beef jerky and small package of mini-muffins, then headed back to my room. I prayed that my keepers thought I was stocking up on goodies so I wouldn't have to interrupt my reading for another trip to the refrigerator.
Rather than packing the fare, I placed the items on the vanity, just in case my captor should pay me a visit. He was the most perceptive person I'd ever met, far more observant than the average human being. You'd think he was a fucking clairvoyant. And because it seemed that nothing escaped his notice, I had to be extra careful. If he knew I had the food, he'd expect to see signs of it. Even if I lied and told him I ate it, he'd probably look for the wrappers and crumbs.
I threw the backpack in the wardrobe and closed the door, then sat down on my bed, trying to stop my stomach from clenching in nervous excitement.
Sunset would not come soon enough.
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&nb
sp; Chapter Sixteen
Working quickly, I tucked my t-shirt into my jeans and looped the small flashlight and field knife onto my belt, buckling it snug about my waist. I placed the compass in my back pocket and donned a long sleeved pullover to cover it all. Last, I placed my hair in a pony tail.
I looked myself over in the mirror. It was almost sunset ... time to go.
Shit. Could I do this? There was still a wall to get over, and god only knew how many guards, and then the vast desert that I might have to cross for endless miles before I came across a village or town.
What if I'm all wrong? What if both windows are locked?
"Then you've lost nothing,” I whispered. “But if you're right, this is your one chance to escape."
He promised to let you go sooner or later. You could die alone in the desert if you've miscalculated the situation.
"Better to die alone in the desert than compromise myself with the enemy."
He's not your enemy.
"He is. He's dangerous to my heart."
What are you so scared of?
No longer willing to argue with myself, I placed my food and water in the proper compartment and zipped up the backpack. I gazed at my purse and pulled out my lip balm and what little Iraqi Dinar I had in there, placing them both in the back pocket opposite my compass. I wasn't taking any ID or credit cards. I didn't want anything that could identify me later if I should get captured by another group.
Which reminded me...
Reaching around my neck, I removed my dog tags and laid them on the vanity. Funny, I hadn't taken them off since my last ‘escape’ attempt. I stared at them with a sense of heart wrenching nostalgia. Like the scent of sandalwood, they made me think of him—of us. I thought of our first meeting, of my stay here, of our discussions, of how well he knew me...
I just hoped I knew him as well as I thought I did.
My escape depended on it.
I knew that dallying any longer increased my chances of being discovered before I even made it outside. Taking a deep breath, I shouldered my bag, laid my hand on my racing heart, and proceeded toward the doorway.
One ... two ... three...
I moved quickly into the living room, targeting the closest window and sweeping aside the curtains in a flurry of fabric.